


if only he had Known

by tabbyfeathers (orangefeatherybooty)



Series: coming into your own [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Fix-It, Jon Becomes the Archivist much faster, M/M, and also a bunch of other things change beyond that because it just kind of happened, rated t for some swearing and mild violence, this is just an au of "what if things were softer and being a monster was fucking Cool"
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:41:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24079930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orangefeatherybooty/pseuds/tabbyfeathers
Summary: Jon has recently been promoted to Head Archivist. Jon is quickly Becoming something else. He doesn't know what to do about it.The most pressing thing about all of this, the thing that burns through him every night as he lies awake turning it over in his mind, iswhy.Why is this happening, why is he feeling like this, why is he having strange new dreams that he can’t even remember, why why why? The questions claw at him like a physical need, until he’s choking on it. He wants to know, needs to know, and it’s like there’s a pressure building in his brain every time he asks the same question of himself and doesn’t get an answer. He wants to know, he’s practically sick with it.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: coming into your own [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731736
Comments: 98
Kudos: 278





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is! The main work for the AU I haven't been able to stop thinking about. I love fix-its, I love Jon, and I love cool monster powers. This was inevitable. 
> 
> This is incredibly self indulgent and very fucking gay. It will also be extremely long, because I can't be stopped. I hope you enjoy what I've got so far!

“Statement ends.”

Jon exhales a long breath, setting Carlos Vittery’s statement back down on the desk, smoothing the paper out where his hands had clutched it a little too hard and wrinkled it. He’s had so much to consider lately, least of all a statement about what likely amounts to a psychotic break-- except, except he can’t really kid himself anymore, can he? Much as he’d like to write the statement off, ignore it and push it away, he can’t deny that something is… off. 

Reading it made him _feel_ it, little bits and pieces of emotion so visceral they couldn’t have come from him alone. Little flashes of Mr. Vittery’s state while recounting the story, no doubt. He got nothing of the sort while he was skimming over the statement a few days ago, sending out the assistants to gather corroborating information. No, no, it all comes back to the tapes. He can’t ignore it anymore, the static, the feeling of being watched, and Vittery’s statement seems to be the final nail in the coffin of his ability to rationalize them as anything other than the legitimately supernatural.

It really started a few weeks ago, with Naomi Herne’s statement. Jon thinks he’d been adapting fairly well to using the tape recorder; as inconvenient as it is, if some of the statements can’t be cataloged digitally then it’s still his job to archive them to the best of his ability with any means at his disposal. Which means, tapes. He’ll admit, he’s even grown a little fond of them, the whir of the tape a lulling sound-- but that’s besides the point. The point is that Naomi Herne comes barreling into the institute, harried and shaken, with a statement that can’t be recorded by normal means. So he takes her statement on tape. And he feels-- watched. 

The entire time Miss Herne is giving her statement, there’s this… presence, settling in the space between his shoulders, the uneasy feeling of being watched. A couple times, Jon had surreptitiously glanced behind himself, but his office door was firmly closed, and no shadows lingered by it. The watched feeling remained for the entirety of her statement, ebbing a bit as he finished recording and sent her away, but never leaving fully. The entire rest of his work day at the institute, the feeling remained. 

He almost wrote it off entirely, when he got home to his flat and it was gone, but that notion was quickly shot down when he returned to work the next day and it was _back_. The feeling of eyes on him, a weight right between his shoulder blades, subtle but ever present. He tried ignoring it, tried to distract himself with more work, but it just wouldn’t go away. In fact, the feeling increased in intensity every time he recorded one of the problem statements on tape. And of course, that couldn’t be the end of it, just feeling watched. Then there were the dreams.

Every few nights since the recording of Miss Herne’s statement, he would wake up feeling cold and afraid and so, utterly alone. The content of the dreams never stayed with him, always slipping away as soon as he opened his eyes, but the feelings remained for minutes after, leaving him shivering in his perfectly warm flat. It made his sleep even more fitful than usual, snapping him awake early in the morning when he had gone to bed far too late the night before and falling back asleep was impossible. It hasn’t really affected him yet, but he can feel the strain already pulling at him, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it continues. 

The most pressing thing about all of this, the thing that burns through him every night as he lies awake turning it over in his mind, is _why._ Why is this happening, why is he feeling like this, why is he having strange new dreams that he can’t even remember, why why why? The questions claw at him like a physical need, until he’s choking on it. He wants to know, needs to know, and it’s like there’s a pressure building in his brain every time he asks the same question of himself and doesn’t get an answer. He wants to _know_ , he’s practically sick with it. 

He’s started getting headaches, more and more frequently. He can’t imagine all the pain medication is good for his liver.

It just doesn’t make any _sense._ Why should these things start happening now? What was so special about Miss Herne’s statement? What’s so special about _him,_ that this is even happening? He doesn’t know, and the not knowing _hurts_. It hurts, and it scares him, loathe as he is to admit that even to himself. 

He glances back down at the statement on his desk and huffs out a dry, humorless laugh. It’s almost a little bit ironic that the statement to make him break down over everything that’s been happening is one about _spiders_. As if Jon doesn’t have enough experience with spiders ruining his life. 

Sighing, he takes his glasses off so he can scrub one hand across his face, suddenly exhausted. Some of his hair has fallen out of his messy bun, and he huffs as one of the strands falls across his eye. Slipping his glasses back on, he pulls his hair out and redoes the bun, taking a deep breath to bring himself some semblance of calm. He’ll just… he’ll think about it later. For now, he has a statement to follow up on. He clears his throat and picks up the supplemental research Tim and Martin managed to gather for him.

“True to the form of many of these… _difficult_ statements, there simply aren’t enough details given in the statement to actually investigate.” He shuffles the papers around quietly, not wanting the recorder to pick up such a useless sound.

  
“Martin did manage to confirm that Mr. Vittery lived at the address he provided. I would have asked Tim to follow up with Mr. Vittery himself, but he appears to have passed away shortly after giving his statement. He was found in his Boothby Road residence, after neighbours complained of the smell, and had apparently been dead for over a week. Coroner’s report lists asphyxiation as the cause of death, probably due to choking, though it doesn’t say what he choked on, simply lists ‘foreign organic material’ blocking his throat.” 

Jon pauses, suppressing a shudder. He could feel something bearing down on him, more pressure on the back of his mind, but he didn’t let himself acknowledge it, just shook his head as if to throw it off. 

“Perhaps the appearance of Mr. Vittery’s corpse lends some credibility to his tale. But, he was there for over a week, long enough that there could be a… perfectly natural explanation for the fact that his body was entirely encased in web.”

Jon doesn’t manage to stop the shudder this time, and his hand shakes minutely as he reaches for the recorder. There’s still that pressure, and somehow he knows, just _knows_ that if he lets it up, it will make him feel something deeply unpleasant.

“End recording.” He clicks the tape off and leans back in his chair with a long sigh, the pressure abating minutely. He wants to hope that this statement could be explainable, could be plain, ordinary, but he knows it’s not. He had to record it on tape, not to mention everything else, so he _knows_ it’s not. Maybe he should retire his meager attempts at skepticism. It’s not as if his assistants pay much attention to him while he’s recording, and the denial just makes him… tired, now. Makes him wince, to hear himself lying so blatantly. 

A knock at his office door makes Jon blink tiredly and straighten up, arranging himself a little more professionally. “Come in.” The door opens hesitantly, Martin poking his head through, and Jon has to resist the urge to scowl. He’s not mad at Martin, per se, just on edge today, but Martin’s wince and subsequent curling in on himself makes Jon think he did a rather poor job of it.

“Ah, not to- sorry to bother you, Jon, just thought you might like a cup of tea? It’s past lunch I know, but you always seem to work through and I just thought- just thought you might want something warm.” Martin’s voice is soft and tremulous, a nervous smile pulling at the corners of his mouth but not fully committing to being there. Normally Jon might grumble something about wasting time, glare Martin out of the office, but instead he just nods, motioning vaguely to his desk. He really is far too tired for this. 

“That is very… thoughtful of you, Martin.” He finally says, as it doesn’t seem like the man is going to come into the office without more prompting.

Martin blinks, momentarily surprised, before he smiles softly and fumbles through the doorway and over to Jon’s desk, setting the tea down in one of the only corners unoccupied by scattered papers. Jon picks it up and wraps his hands around it, trying not to show outwardly how soothed he is by the warmth. Martin smiles at him again, even brighter this time, and he turns away, willing himself not to be embarrassed. It’s just Martin.

His eyes land on the statement and follow-up scattered across his desk, and his lip curls in disdain.

“Something wrong?” Martin says quietly, concern evident in his voice. Jon almost startles at it. Is he really so easy to read?

“No, no, just-- the statement. Carlos Vittery. Don’t much care for how little follow-up we had with it.” He doesn’t mention the feelings, of course he doesn’t, he doesn’t want the people working for him to think he’s going insane. If he does, and they think that, who’s to say it’s not the truth? No, he’s not ready to address that possibility until he absolutely has to. 

Rather than continue, he just sniffs and takes a sip of his tea. It’s quite good. Martin shifts at his side, blinking owlishly at the papers scattered across his desk.

“The ah- the spider guy, yes? You had me look up his flat?” Jon nods, takes another sip of tea. Martin worries the hem of his jumper. He’s such a large man, but Jon notices that he seems to always be trying to make himself as small as possible.

“Well, what’s bothering you about it?” Jon hums at that, face scrunching up in thought.

“The circumstances of his death just don’t-- sit right. I’m sure there’s some, some natural explanation for the state he was found in, but it was so abrupt, almost directly after he gave his statement. I’m… uncomfortable with how little we understand about the situation.” Jon blinks a few times after he finishes speaking, surprised by how much he said. He eyes the tea in his hands suspiciously before rolling his eyes at his own internal paranoia. As if Martin would do something so sinister as poison him, dear lord.

“Oh, well, um, there wasn’t really very much to look into, I suppose. I can understand how that might be frustrating, but I don’t know how we’d go about finding more out.” Martin almost seems apologetic, so Jon just sighs and shakes his head.  
  


“Yes, I know, I know. There’s never much to look for in these damned statements.” He sets the tea back down in the clear corner, turning his chair so he can focus back on filing the statement and the tape away correctly. It’s as clear a dismissal as any, and he hears Martin shift, deliberating for a moment, before soft footsteps and the click of his door. Good. Maybe he can get some more work done, despite the exhaustion, if he has some peace. 

~

Unsurprisingly, Jon doesn’t get much work done. He even ends up nodding off at his desk, empty mug and papers shoved to the side so he can pillow his head on his arms. Thankfully no one catches him like that, couldn’t have been out for more than 45 minutes, but he has a pretty embarrassing red spot on his cheek so for once, he decides to go home early (early for him, at least). 

Jon’s flat is empty, as always. He considered getting a cat, a tiny ache left in his chest for the Admiral, but he spends so much time at work that he doesn’t want to be neglectful. So his flat is plain, and empty, and quiet.

He makes himself tomato soup for dinner, eyelids already drooping with the weight of his exhaustion. He might have forgone the meal entirely if he hadn’t already skipped lunch and merely snagged an apple for breakfast; his body’s protests force him to eat, even if the soup burns his tongue and tastes like dust in his mouth. He eats quickly, leaves his dishes soaking in the sink, and only just manages to brush his teeth before he’s passed out curled up in his bed.

He dreams.

~

_He is in a graveyard, the damp ground soft under his bare feet. The moon sits high and full in the night sky, but the light it shines is cold, unable to cut through the thick, cloying fog that rolls around his ankles. It pools and shivers, sweeping out and around him with the motion of long, tired breaths. The graveyard is dark, but of course, he can See._

_There are rows of pristine granite tombstones dotting the soft ground, standing vigil over neat, open graves. He hears a sound, a gasp of pain, coming from one of those dark holes, and his feet carry him over, stationing him above the opening. A woman is clawing at the dirt around her, desperate for escape, fat tears rolling down her cheeks and turning the dust on her face to mud. She gasps out another sob and turns, frantic, to look at him. He does not move. He cannot move._

_He is a hundred-hundred unblinking eyes, bearing down upon her with a cold, clinical detachment. She cries harder, closing her eyes and fisting her hands in her hair, shoulders shaking. She is shouting, voice cracking as she sobs, but the fog rolls around her and down her throat, choking the noise, and he cannot make out her words. But- he needs to hear, to Know, what she’s saying. He cannot not Know._

_Something tugs on him, something bears down on him, something holds him tight in a massive hand and squeezes until he is weak with it. His hundred-hundred eyes widen and look at the fog, Know it, until it shivers with the terror of being Seen and dissipates away from the woman. He can hear her now. She is screaming._

_“Go away!” She gasps, voice hoarse and cracking painfully. “P-please, please, go away! Let me dream of something else, st-op making me come back here!” She breaks down into more sobs, throwing her back against the side of the grave farthest from him, showering herself in wet clumps of soil. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand. He Watches. He has to._

_The woman is crying, and he is standing, watching her. She is begging for release, and he is watching her. She is crying, and he-_

_He reaches a hand up, haltingly, like the movement is foreign to him, like he only just remembered how to. He touches his parted lips, feels the stubble on his jaw, sweeps his hand up to find eyes and eyes and eyes and- and-_

_He is a hundred-hundred unblinking eyes, and they are crying._

~

Jon tumbles out of bed with a pained gasp, his face wet and eyes stinging. What the fuck was that? What in the fucking hell was that?? Almost without thinking his hands fly up to scrub at his cheeks and- of course, hah, no eyes there. Why would there be? It was just a dream. Even though something tells him, presses the information hard into the back of his skull, that it very much wasn’t. 

Rather than acknowledging that niggling feeling, he picks himself up from his sprawl and checks the time: 4:47 AM. That’s, fine. It’s fine.

Jon gets out of bed and goes about his morning routine in a daze. His mind is hazy, sluggish. He’s still trying to process the dream, baffled by just how _clearly_ he remembers it now, like a switch flipped in his mind and started shoving the information down his throat rather than letting it fade away. 

The content of the dream, too, was… upsetting. Naomi Herne, in the setting described in her statement, and him, the monstrous observer. If he were the kind of person to believe in it he might have been inclined to look up the symbolism of a dream like this, but he hasn’t stooped so low yet. It must just be something swirling around in his subconscious, perhaps some guilt about being so dismissive of Miss Herne when she was obviously having a hard time. And the eyes are… well, he’s an archivist, it seems self explanatory. 

Whatever the dream meant, if it meant anything, which he is very much disinclined to believe, it’s not important to him getting ready and going to work. Rather than dwell on it any further, he shakes himself out of his ridiculous stupor and finishes getting dressed. 

He’s always liked being the first one in the archives. It’s not as if he can’t handle being alone.

~

It’s been a few days since he had the dream, and his sleep has been blissfully uninterrupted thus far. Jon wonders if he just needed to get whatever he was thinking out of his system for it to stop. He hopes, at least.

He’s in the middle of recording a statement about another god forsaken Leitner when he feels a cold, heavy presence at the door, and he stops and turns just as the latch clicks and the door opens. It’s Elias, but Jon doesn’t get the chance to greet him politely like he usually would, frozen under the pure _weight_ of the man’s gaze. It presses down on him from all sides, a sickening pressure to being watched so unlike the one he’s become accustomed to that he can barely suppress his shudder. Elias raises an eyebrow, looking him up and down, before suddenly, the pressure lets up. Jon is left spluttering, suddenly aware of his silent staring.

“Oh, erm, hello Elias.” He says a little weakly. For some reason, he is distinctly aware of the hum of the recorder behind him. 

“Do you have a moment, Jon?” Elias says, voice even and completely and utterly normal. Jon blinks, glancing back at the statement scattered across his desk.

“Actually, I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

“I understand, it’s just that Miss Herne has lodged a complaint.” 

“A complaint?” Jon can’t help but splutter. “What could she possibly have to complain about?” It’s even as he says it that he sees, suddenly, an image of her huddled in a damp grave, shaking with the strength of her sobs, and he has to dig his nails into the arm of his chair to keep from reacting more visibly. Elias flicks his gaze down anyway, then back to Jon.

“I’d rather not give you the details, as the complaint was obviously about you. I would simply prefer that you not antagonize anyone connected to the Lukas family, Jon. They are patrons of the Institute, after all.” Elias narrows his eyes minutely, and Jon feels that enormous weight again for a split second, so overwhelming he thinks he might have gasped out loud. Just as quickly it’s gone, and Elias is looking at him expectantly, as though nothing is amiss.

“I…” He coughs into his hand, turning to avoid Elias’s gaze. “Yes, well, I’ll try to be more… aware. Can I please get back to work now?” Elias smiles at him, the picture of a pleased superior.

“Of course. Ah, by the way, have you seen Martin?” The question throws him, for a moment. 

“Oh, no, he’s off sick. Stomach problems, I believe he said.” He blinks as Elias just nods and leaves. The increased feeling of being watched fades back into the familiar, almost comfortable brush of eyes sweeping over him. He sighs, turning back to his desk. 

“One less distraction from all this, at least. Statement resumes.”

~

Jon is-- frazzled, for lack of a better. Something is happening to him, clearly, and he wants to know _why._ The other day, when he was eating a rare lunch in the breakroom with Sasha, he commented idly on her cousin’s new baby. She had looked at him strangely, put off, and he had to take a moment to think about what he said before it hit him that he had _no idea how he knew that._ He made a hasty excuse about seeing it on Facebook before fleeing as quickly as he could back to his office.

He keeps- he keeps having little thoughts, these little comments about the things around him, just tidbits of information that are innocent enough. They seem like normal thoughts at first, just a part of the swirl of information going through his brain at any given moment. It’s not until he looks back and considers the information that he realizes he doesn’t know _how_ he knew it. He shouldn’t _know_ the age of the potted plant sat besides Rosie’s desk, it’s from before he started working at the Institute. He shouldn’t _know_ Sasha’s new prescription, just from seeing her in new frames. They’re all such small things, but he can’t stop thinking about how he _knows._

The dreams are back too, of course. Or, it would be more accurate to say “dream,” singular. It’s only ever the one. Miss Herne, sobbing in an open grave, so utterly alone except for him, just. Watching. He hasn’t tried to interact with her again. He’s scared of what he might learn. 

The lack of sleep, the distracting knowledge, all of it is wearing on him in ways that are becoming increasingly obvious. Tim and Sasha have even started pointing it out, asking him if he’s feeling alright. His mussy hair and the dark circles under his eyes are probably reasonable cause for concern, but he doesn’t tell them anything, just assures them he’s fine and they should get back to work if they want to make up for Martin’s absence. 

He doesn’t know what he’d tell them, if he tried.

“Oh, sorry about my unkempt hair and my ashen expression, I’m just constantly being watched, having terrible dreams, and gaining unbidden knowledge that I couldn’t possibly have learned naturally. Everything’s peachy!” Hah. As if they wouldn’t just send him to the hospital for a psychotic break. They’d probably expect one of him, with how high-strung he is. So, no, talking about it is very much out.

He wonders, though, if it would help to discuss it out loud, get his thoughts in order. Leaning back from his desk, he eyes the spare tape-recorder, humming thoughtfully. Perhaps, after the statement he has to record today… Well, it couldn’t hurt. It’s not as if they’ll need the extra on-hand, he only ever records the statements one at a time. More will turn up when he needs them, he Knows.

~

“... and I don’t even know which thoughts might not have been _mine_ , originally, if any of them still _are_ mine.” Jon hisses into the tape recorder sat on his coffee table, stress and frustration making his voice more forceful than it maybe needs to be when he’s just talking to himself. 

The statement today had been rough; statement of Father Edwin Burroughs regarding his claimed demonic possession. 

It had started distressingly enough with Jon pulling the two halves of the separated statement out of different folders, one of them unlabelled, without any hesitation or uncertainty. He had just Known, when he had picked up the first half of Father Burroughs statement, that he needed the rest of it, and then he Knew where it was. The content of the statement itself was _deeply_ upsetting. He always feels them when he reads them, now, the real statements. He gets to experience the horror and the fear and now the _taste_ of them, coating the back of his throat, leather and copper. But that feeling pales in comparison to what it made him consider.

Possession. A loss of control over oneself, over what one sees and hears and _knows_. It still shakes him to think about the possibility that something else has control of his body, is feeding him this knowledge and sensation like so many treats to- what? Watch him squirm? Let the terror rattle around inside him while he still has power enough to scream? He doesn’t understand. There’s too many variables, too many questions, and it terrifies him how little he _knows._ He feels powerless and small under the weight of his ignorance. 

Trying not to cry, Jon curls his knees up and tucks them against his chest, wrapping his arms around them and tucking his face into the space between. He doesn’t feel safe much, anymore, but he can trick his brain a little like this, taking comfort in the familiar. Listening to his own heartbeat, his breath rustling the fabric of his shirt, the low whir of the tape recorder in the background. 

Closing his eyes, he presses his back into the couch cushion, appreciating the illusion of safety that comes with having something solid behind him, and takes a deep breath. Martin should try this instead of wedging himself into a corner every time the knocking starts. If Jane Prentiss really wanted to kill him she would have done it already.

Wait.

What?

Jon startles so badly at the thoughts he just had that he flails off the couch and falls onto the floor in a heap, knocking into the edge of the coffee table painfully. He has a moment of pure, uncomprehending confusion as he stares blankly at the carpet underneath him before his brain catches up and he nearly screams. 

Jane Prentiss is outside of Martin’s flat- but how? _Why_? Why in God’s name would one of the elusive entities the Institute is researching be terrifying his assistant? They didn’t even know if she was still alive! 

Still struggling to comprehend the implications of his… revelation, Jon scrambles up and across the floor, snatching his phone off the kitchen table. It’s fine, this is fine. It’s probably not even-- he could be wrong. He hasn’t tested this-- he resents calling it an _ability_ but that really is the most apt description-- enough to know if everything he “learns” is always correct. It could just be a wild theory his mind came up with, one of those odd intrusive thoughts that don’t really make sense. If he just calls Martin, this can all be resolved, and he can apologize for the lack of professionalism later. 

Martin doesn’t pick up.

He doesn’t pick up the second time either, or the fifth, and all of Jon’s texts go unread. This isn’t- this isn’t right. It’s only just eight in the evening, nobody goes to sleep before eight. And Martin isn’t asleep, he’s pacing around the kitchen making tea and trying not to cry over the state of his pantry and the growl of hunger in his stoma- stop! 

Jon gasps and shuts his eyes against the onslaught of information, burying his hands in his hair to ground him in sensation. It’s like when he wondered something just _opened up_ inside of him, a hose spraying knowledge down his throat when all he’s ever had at once is a glass. It hurts, crowding his brain and jumbling his thoughts. It takes him a long moment of quiet to sort through what he knows, to come back to himself and form a plan.

So. Martin is in danger, obviously. Jane Prentiss is outside his flat, terrorizing him with the threat of killer worms. Martin is trapped, Prentiss has his phone-- is she the one that sent him that text?-- and Jon has to, what? Save him? Martin may not be Jon’s favorite person, clumsy and airheaded and bothersome as he is, but the man doesn’t deserve to be tortured. Or, God, to starve. He’s been trapped in his flat for almost ten days and Jon Knows he doesn’t have much food left. But what can he possibly do to help?

On the floor beside him, Jon’s phone vibrates. With a singularly focused dread, he reaches over, picks up the phone, and unlocks it. 

_2 new messages_

  
  


**_Martin Blackwood:_ **

_do you hear it Archivist?_

_the song?_

Jon feels almost sick as he types out a shaky reply.

_What do you want with Martin?_

_hes not special_

_he found me and he is meat_

_a warm body for the hive_

_marked by the Eye but otherwise no different_

_but i felt your eyes on me Archivist_

_so tell me_

_do you hear them sing?_

_I don’t know what you’re talking about. Leave Martin alone_

_or what_

_can you even help him?_

_would you even try?_

_or are you just going to watch_

_powerless to stop it_

Jon doesn’t know what that conversation opened in him, something hot and raw and angry, until he’s already standing and grabbing his keys and jacket. Prentiss doesn’t know _anything_ , is just a hive of rot and filth. She doesn’t have the right to threaten one of his Assistants and mock him with it, to call him powerless. He isn’t _powerless_ , he isn’t just going to watch. Someone- Martin is in danger, and he’s going to _do_ something about it.

It’s only when Jon is standing in front of a run down apartment complex that he really comes back to himself. He remembers the journey, of course, remembers walking to the bus station, remembers getting off at Martin’s address. But the whole time his mind was clouded with anger and fear and, most distressing, a burning desire to Know. To see Prentiss, to find her and crush her under the weight of his gaze, to get her away from his Assistant. The feelings are… startling, in their intensity, and Jon is frightened, but he’s here, now, and he can’t leave Martin to keep fending for himself. That’s what’s most important, helping keep someone _safe._

It’s easy to punch in the code for the door and let himself inside, his legs taking him to the stairwell (the elevator has been broken for months, Martin jokingly reassures himself that he needs the exercise instead of dwelling on the fact that this is the only place he can afford and he can’t complain-) and up to the second floor. The building is quiet and dusty, but as Jon gets closer to where he Knows Prentiss is, he can hear… squirming. Then comes a smell, musty and earthy and sweet like rot, and he exits the stairwell into a hall swimming with worms.

In the middle of the writhing mass is Prentiss, more holes than flesh, in her tattered red dress. She is knocking on a door, Martin’s door, but when he enters the hall she stops and turns to smile at him. Her eyes are empty sockets that worms wriggle freely through.

“Archivist.” Her voice is a hoarse, grating whisper that somehow also carries the squelch of wriggling flesh. “How kind of you to join us.” Jon grits his teeth and glares, stepping on a worm crawling excitedly towards him without looking. Prentiss frowns.

“How rude.”

“I’m not here to _chat, Hive_. You need to leave.” His voice is cold and forceful, despite the terror pooling in his gut. He needs to help, needs to get Prentiss to _leave_ , but he is now painfully aware of his complete lack of a plan or even a weapon. Prentiss considers him, head twitching as more worms crawl in and out of her many holes.

“What are you going to do? Make me?” There’s a cold humor in her voice as she looks down at him. 

Jon snarls, fear running hot in his throat, when he hears the distinct _click_ of a tape recorder turning on. His hands brush against his coat pocket, and he feels the weight there, takes out the recorder and holds it in front of him. He Knows, suddenly and with utter certainty, what to do.

“I can take your statement.” He says, voice clipped and more even than it’s been all night. Static crackles from the recorder’s speakers, louder than it should be, and Prentiss flinches back like she’s been struck. Jon takes a step forward.

“Statement of Jane Prentiss, regarding her Becoming the Hive-”

“Enough!” Prentiss howls, slinking away from him as her worms squelch and wriggle after her at alarming speed. 

“You’ve made your point, _Archivist_. You can keep him. I want him to see it, when your crimson fate arrives.” With her last hissed words she slips out the window at the end of the hall, worms following her in a cascade of filth. 

As soon as the last writhing creature is out of the building Jon collapses onto the ground, knees weak, shaking. He takes a deep, deep breath, trying to calm the rapid beat of his heart, as he clicks the recorder off and pockets it. Well. That went better than expected, at least. 

He gives himself a few minutes to recover before standing on trembling legs and walking over to Martin’s door. He knocks quickly, an irregular rhythm.

“Martin?” He calls out softly. “It’s, um, it’s me, Jon. Prentiss is gone, now. You can open the door.” 

There’s a long, hushed silence, then a lot of frantic shuffling and creaking and moving of things put up against the door, before it cracks open and Martin peers down at Jon. He gives a tiny, embarrassed little wave, and Martin’s eyes widen before he flings the door open, grabs the front of Jon’s shirt and tugs him inside. 

“What- what in the world were you thinking? You could have died!” Martin’s voice is high and terrified and _angry,_ carrying a rough edge that echoes his haggard appearance. He looks absolutely terrible, hair a mess, face greasy and eyes sporting deep bags. Jon has never been happier to see him.

Martin is still ranting at him, hands clasped firmly around Jon’s shoulders as he maneuvers Jon around to check him for worms, and Jon feels a bone deep tiredness overcome him as the adrenaline goes down. He is truly and utterly exhausted, and he doesn’t know if his legs are going to support him much longer. In a fit of thoughtless energy, he brings a hand up, brushing against Martin’s chest before settling on his shoulder. Martin stops talking, going completely still. 

“I’m glad you’re alright, Martin. We should be safe for a bit. Please don’t freak out.” And Martin is opening his mouth to respond, face pinched in confusion, but Jon doesn’t see the rest of it, just closes his eyes and falls against Martin’s chest as he passes out. 

~

He wakes up (47 minutes later), blinking his eyes blearily open as he looks around the room. He’s reclining on a surprisingly comfortable, if slightly dirty, couch, and Martin is pacing the room in front of him. Oh, right. Martin, the worms. They should probably leave, in case Prentiss comes back. Jon makes a tiny noise of exertion as he tries to sit himself up despite his continued exhaustion, and Martin startles at it, before rushing over to his side.

“Jon! My God, seriously, what is wrong with you?! First you, you show up at my flat and scare off an evil worm lady, and then you just pass out? What am I supposed to think!” Martin is frantic, voice high and angry and terribly worried, and Jon has never seen him like this, not really. He’s only ever seen Martin fumbling nervously over his work, head turned down in embarrassment or shame as Jon digs into him for some minor mistake (all to cover his own insecurities over getting a job he’s wildly under-qualified for). He’s never seen him so confident despite his obvious terror and worry, and Jon finds himself absolutely fascinated with this side of the man he’s been working with for months now. 

Oh, he seems to have been zoning out of the conversation. This might be important.

“... and, and how did you know I needed help? I dropped my phone and I didn’t have access to the internet at all, I couldn’t contact anyone! How did you even know where I _lived?_ ” Martin rounds on him, face flushed with frustration, a hand tangling in his hair. And Jon could lie easily, say he looked up Martin’s application and found his address, could claim he came here by completely normal means, checking in on a sick employee. But he’s very tired of lying, especially to himself, so he doesn’t.

“I… Knew it. I was- I was sitting in my flat trying not to have a panic attack and I had a thought, about how you should try curling up somewhere safe instead of shoving yourself into the corner,” and he points, without looking, to the corner of Martin’s flat farthest from the door, “whenever the knocking started again. And then I tried to call you, because apparently you were _trapped_ , and then text you, and Prentiss answered, and made it seem very likely she was about to kill you. So I Knew your address, and I came.” Jon feels lighter, somehow, for having admitted it, for telling the Truth. He didn’t know how much he wanted to say something about all this to another person until he did.

Martin, predictably, is only more confused by his answer, blinking at him and spluttering.

“What- what does that even _mean_ , Jon? Are you telling me you’re _psychic_ now, is that what this is?” Jon frowns and leans back into the couch, rubbing at his forehead.

“No it’s- it’s not that. I can’t read minds or look into the future. I just… sometimes I just Know things, like I… I have a thought, and it seems utterly normal, until I realize that I couldn’t have possibly learned that information normally.” He casts his eyes around the flat, trying to Know something about it, opening the valve that holds that pressure in his head just a little. His eyes land on Martin’s jumper, a soft, thick, pink thing, grimy after days of wear but otherwise quite homey.

“You got that jumper two years ago at a yard sale in Brixton. It was four pounds and it reminds you of a jumper your mother found in the charity shop and patched up for you, before she got sick.” The information leaves him in a rush, and it’s only after it’s out that he wonders if that was too far, too intimate. He looks up at Martin’s face, an apology already on his lips, but the man in front of him is frozen, eyes wide, one hand fisted in that soft pink jumper, and Jon falters. Martin takes a step back.

“M-Martin, I’m sorry, that wasn’t appropriate, I was just trying to-” Martin puts a hand up, and Jon quiets.

“Stop, just… Stop. This is a lot, and I just need- I just need a moment.” Jon nods, noting the lack of anger in Martin’s voice and hoping that means he hasn’t completely cocked up his first foray into meaningful human connection in years. Martin paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair and fiddling with the hem of his jumper for a few long minutes, before the nervous glances at the door and the anxious set of his face becomes too much for Jon.

“We should- it might be more… comfortable, if we went somewhere else. I understand that you probably don’t feel very, ah, safe, here, at the moment.” Martin gives him a flat, unimpressed look, and Jon flushes a bit under the scrutiny. 

“I just mean that- I’m not certain Prentiss won’t come back here, I don’t Know it, and you don’t have much food left and you probably don’t want to spend another night in the place you were under constant threat of death for over a week. All that is to say that I, ah-” and Jon pauses again, fiddling with the tape recorder in his pocket, almost wanting to turn it on to hear the hum of the tape. He coughs into his hand and turns back to Martin, who looks less anxious now, thankfully, and more curious. 

“You can stay at my flat, if you’d like? Until this all- blows over.” The offer feels silly and impulsive even as he says it, but Jon just wants to be able to offer some sort of assurance, something to make Martin- what, trust him? When he doesn’t even trust himself? He doesn’t even know why he’s so concerned over the other man’s safety, just that he _is_ , that it’s important, that he wants the people around him to be safe. But it’s a stupid thing to ask, and he prepares himself for a hurried rejection. 

Instead, Martin stands there, stock still and silent, as his whole face flushes pink. His mouth does something twisty, like he’s trying not to make a certain expression, before he starts laughing, almost hysterically, bent over with the force of it. Jon is concerned, obviously, and he almost tries to wobble to his feet and see what’s wrong, but Martin puts a hand up before he can, catching his breath. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’m just-!” Martin cuts himself off, gasping for another breath, before he turns back to Jon with an almost manic smile. 

“It’s just- this is insane, you know that, right? First I get trapped by a worm monster, and then suddenly my boss who _hates me_ shows up, scares off the creature I thought was going to _kill_ me, then offers to put me up in his flat? This is bloody unbelievable!” Martin barks out another laugh, stumbling over across his battered carpet to collapse into the couch at Jon’s side. His expression sobers a little, the manic joy leaving him with just exhausted confusion. 

“Why do you even care, Jon?” And Martin’s voice is so tired, so defeated, that Jon can’t help but want to punch himself. How much of an ass does he always need to be for Martin to doubt whether or not his concern is genuine? He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face and not even bothering to pick up his glasses when they fall off. He turns to Martin, hopes he can say this right, hopes he can get it across correctly this time.

“Of course I care, Martin, of course I don’t want you to _die_ if I can help it. I’m your superior, I should be…” he sighs, rubs a hand over his arm. “I know I haven’t been- I haven’t been kind to you, and there’s no excuse for that, but I’ve just been… I’ve been so _scared_. Scared of people figuring out that I’m not qualified for my position, scared of humiliation, of being hurt. And now I’m scared of _myself_ , of how much I’m changing. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, and it’s _terrifying_. But despite all that, I’m-- I’m sorry, for how I’ve treated you. I’ve been arrogant and blind to your contributions, and that’s not fair.” He sighs again, closing his eyes and huffing out a dry laugh.

“You don’t deserve your boss unloading all his fears onto you after everything you’ve been through, either, that’s for sure. God, I’m bad at this. I’m sorry, Martin.” Jon sits there for a moment, eyes closed, resigned to the fact that Martin probably despises him now, resents his arrogance and his unnecessary cruelty. He startles a bit, then, at the light touch of a hand on his arm, and he turns his face up to Martin’s soft expression.

“I won’t lie that you’ve been a bit of an ass, Jon.” He snorts, but Martin just rolls his eyes and continues. “Okay, more than a bit. But I also know that you’ve been under a lot of pressure in the new position, apparently even more than just the normal work kind. Now that’s no excuse for your behavior being… much less than cordial, but I think I can accept your apology. You know, since you saved me and all.” Martin gives him a small smile, the most sincere thing he’s seen all night, and Jon can’t help but smile back, crooked and awkward. Martin’s smile widens further at that, and he sits up and claps his hands together. 

“So! You said something about leaving? Because if I look in my kitchen and see another can of peaches, I think I’m going to have a real breakdown!” The cheerful lilt of Martin’s voice makes Jon laugh quietly, the tension draining out of him with every moment, and he stands up on unsteady legs. 

“Yes, well, I think I can order us some food at my flat and avoid anything with peaches. Do you, ah, need any help packing?” He offers out of awkward politeness, though the fact that he’s barely standing makes him unlikely to follow through. Martin just frowns at him and pushes him back into the couch, standing up himself. 

“No, God, sit down for a while longer. I’ll get packed and call us a cab, you are not walking to the station like this.” Jon gives him a weak, grateful smile, before Martin bustles off. Hopefully he won’t regret this, letting himself be so vulnerable. Then again, maybe he needed it. Obviously, being a one-man castle isn’t working out for him so far.

~

Martin packs quickly and bustles Jon into a cab, only just being convinced not to carry him (Jon may be small, and he may be on the verge of collapse, but he still has some dignity!). The ride to Jon’s flat is awkwardly quiet, and dinner is a similar affair. Martin tries to strike up little bits of conversation, but they’re both so tired (and Jon is so guilty over his abysmal treatment of Martin up to this point) that talk fizzles quickly out. 

It’s a relief when they’ve both eaten and Jon can grab the sheets and blankets from the closet to set Martin up on the couch. He’s been running on fumes all night, and obviously Martin is similarly exhausted. It’s with a quick, horribly awkward goodnight that Jon is collapsing into bed and falling asleep almost instantly. He dreams.

~

He is in a graveyard, the damp ground soft under his bare feet. The moon sits high and full in the night sky, but the light it shines is cold, unable to cut through the thick, cloying fog that- no. No no no, not _again_. 

Jon looks around, frantic, but he doesn’t need to turn his head to look, can See every angle of this nightmare with all his many Eyes. A strangled sound escapes his throat, frustration and anger and terror all bubbling up out of him, when he hears the wailing sob from across the graveyard. He stumbles, tripping over the soft uneven ground, over to the source of the sound, an open grave. 

Naomi Herne was her name, he remembers, he Knows. She is inside the grave, clutching her arms to her chest and sobbing. He Sees her. She turns to him, frantic and afraid and _angry_ , and snarls at him. The fog does not choke her voice.

“Why can’t you just leave me alone? I never should have given my bloody statement to your stupid institute, nothing good came of it. You just sit there and you _watch_ and you don’t do anything!” She punctuates her statement by suddenly digging into the soil under her and pulling up a clump of dirt to throw as hard as she can at the _thing_ in front of her. It hits Jon square in the chest with little force, but something in the feeling makes him stagger back, stumbling until he falls to the ground. He rasps out another throaty sound. 

“I-I’m, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His voice is rough and grating from disuse, barely more than a whisper, but Naomi seems to hear it anyway, and her gaze focuses on him with a startling intensity. She is so scared, he Knows she is, but she is also so angry, and maybe that’s what keeps him so grounded, her rage.

“I can’t- I can’t stop it. I-I don’t- I don’t know what’s happening to me.” It hurts so much to speak, like he’s never said a thing in his life, like his body barely knows how. Naomi snarls at him again, tears still dripping down her face even as she bares her teeth. 

“I just want you to stop!” She yells, throwing another fistful of soil. Jon chokes on something like a sob, closing his eyes (it does nothing to keep him from Seeing).

“I can’t, I can’t, I’m _sorry_!” He gasps out, voice thick as a sob rips through him, and he can feel all his Eyes shudder and squint against the onslaught of emotions. 

“I’m trying, I promise, I don’t want this.” He finally manages to choke out, whole body shaking. Naomi is still sitting in the grave, still angry, but she seems to be considering him, now, looking at him and not the Eyes that swirl beside him and stare at her, unblinking. She takes a slow, even breath, tipping her head back against the damp wall of the grave.

“I suppose,” she starts, voice rough from crying, but calmer than she’s ever been. “I suppose it’s less Lonely, with you here. Watching.” She’s still angry, still frustrated and scared, but Jon knows an olive branch when he sees one, and he latches onto it. 

“Yes.” His voice is tremulous and wet from his own tears. “Yes, I’m- I’m trying. I promise, I’ll keep- trying.”

Naomi looks him over again, takes in his pathetic, monstrous form, and nods once. Relief floods his chest, so bright it almost burns, and something in him shudders curiously and opens itself a little wider. 

He closes his Eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _His eyes are wide and burning, looking sightlessly forward as he feels something bear down on him, crushing and enormous, filling up his head and his chest. It’s a pressure, a presence, desperately hungry to drink in every inch of him. He is Known, he is Seen, he is crushed and weeping under the weight of a ceaseless gaze, he is held half-formed in the gentle palm of a lidded hand, he feels everything and everyone everywhere, he is-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, it's been a bit! Sorry for the long wait, I started working full time (at McDonald's, so the work is physically exhausting and it pays like shit!) and I've been low on time and energy for writing. But I still got it done! Your guys' comments are seriously what kept me going, they bring me so much joy to read your thoughts and they really motivate me to write. This chapter specifically goes out to Guest for writing so many detailed comments and making me actually cry real happy tears. I wish I knew a different name to call you because I Love You. Anyway, enjoy the chapter!

Jon wakes up in a rush, sweating and frightened, but rather than falling off his bed and onto the floor he’s kept from slipping by a soft hand on his arm. It takes him a long moment to come to himself, looking around in confusion at his lack of Sight, before he finally registers that Martin is standing over him, one hand still on his arm, looking incredibly awkward.

“O-oh, Martin, sorry, did I- did I wake you?” Jon says, a bit tremulously, voice still weak. God, he must look a sight. His eyes still sting with tears and his throat feels sobbed raw. Martin squeezes his arm lightly before finally releasing it, fiddling with his sleep shirt as he pulls away.

“Yes- er, yeah, but I mean, I don’t fault you for it. You were… crying, and I couldn’t just leave you like that.” Martin’s hands flutter about a bit helplessly as Jon scrubs at his eyes, sniffling.

“Would you like some tea? And maybe to-- talk about it?” Martin says softly, and it’s all Jon can do to nod and give him a grateful smile.

They’re in Jon’s cramped kitchen now, both clutching steaming mugs of tea. Martin is leaning against the counter, tense as though he expects Jon to fully collapse any second, while Jon is slumped in a worn chair at the small kitchen table. It took him an embarrassingly long amount of time to drag himself out of bed and wash his face. How does a _dream_ exhaust you?

Martin hums, spoon clinking against the edge of his mug as he takes a tentative sip of tea, and the air thrums with a tension that Jon would barely know how to break in a regular social setting, let alone with his Assistant, who is now living in his damn flat. He sighs, fingers curling around his mug. The warmth is grounding even if he doesn’t feel up to drinking it.

“It’s… it’s hard to talk about, I think. Not because I don’t _want_ to, but that I’m so afraid of the possibility of being known and _hated_ or, God, _feared_ for it that I… it makes it very difficult.” Jon pushes a hand through his tangled hair, frustration bubbling up in the back of his throat. He’s supposed to be good at talking, why does he sound so stupid?

There is a click, somewhere to his right, and Jon looks over to see a tape recorder. He knows he didn’t bring that into the kitchen, knows he left his current one in his jacket pocket on the floor of his room. But the hum of the tape is a comfort, and Jon Knew this would happen at some point, that they were bound to start popping up when he had things to say. He’s mostly going to be going over his previously recorded observations and the new dream, so Martin must have some insight to add for it to be interested. He nudges the tape recorder closer, eyelids fluttering at the soothing whir, and glances back at Martin.

Martin is staring at him, wide-eyed, clutching his tea to his chest.

“Do you mind if I record this?” Jon says.

“I don’t- I don’t mind if you record.” Martin says in a rush, before surging forward to set his mug down and get nearer the table Jon’s propped up on. “What I _do_ mind is weird magic tape recorders! Where did that come from, why aren’t you _upset_?!” The frantic pitch of Martin’s voice makes Jon pause, consider his thoughts in the last few moments, and he curses.  
  


“Well, what is it?”

“It’s- it’s another, ability or something, I don’t really… I don’t know how to explain. I just… I just Knew this would happen, which is why I wasn’t surprised. Apparently, we’re going to be talking about something important, and it likes important things to be recorded. When there isn’t one present it will be… provided.”

That doesn’t seem to reassure Martin any. In fact, it makes him look even more nervous, face paling.

“What is ‘it,’ Jon?” Martin asks hoarsely. Jon opens his mouth to respond, the question fluttering around his mind as he wonders at the answer-- and tenses as pressure suddenly builds in his head. He’s been wrong this whole time, he Sees. It’s not a valve controlling the pressure on a hose feeding him Knowledge, it’s a _door,_ a door with something behind it, cracking it open and peering hungrily in.

His eyes are wide and burning, looking sightlessly forward as he feels something bear down on him, crushing and enormous, filling up his head and his chest. It’s a pressure, a _presence_ , desperately hungry to drink in every inch of him. He is Known, he is Seen, he is crushed and weeping under the weight of a ceaseless gaze, he is held half-formed in the gentle palm of a lidded hand, he feels everything and everyone everywhere, he is-

He is sitting in his kitchen, gasping in a sudden, desperate breath. Martin stares at him, frightened and unmoving. Barely a second had passed but it had felt an inescapable eternity. Jon gulps in another few breaths, trying to tame the rapid beat of his heart, and he finally takes a drink of his tea to combat the sudden dryness in his mouth.

“...Jon?” Martin’s voice is soft, tremulous. Jon takes another drink.

“I’m- I’m fine, Martin. Or I, I will be fine.” His hands shake, threatening to slosh his tea over the edge, so he sets his mug down. “I don’t know what that was but I have… an idea. Maybe.” As the initial rush continues to fade, Jon can feel something softer and smaller settle in between his shoulders, the barest brush of Watching. He is terrified by how comforting it feels, how soothing it is in its familiarity after the overwhelming weight just forced upon him. Running a hand through his hair, Jon does his best to push the terror and uncertainty aside before turning back to Martin and giving him a weak smile.

“I think it’d be best if I started explaining, now. You’ll need the context to understand, well, any of this.”

Martin gives him a cautious nod, taking a few steps back to lean against the counter and give Jon more space. Jon takes a deep breath, propping his arm up on the counter and letting his face half hide in the crook of his elbow as he mulls over his next words. It’s a little childish, but it’s comfortable, and he needs to be able to think.

“I suppose I should start with the dream, and then branch off from there. Ever since Naomi Herne, the- the woman in the foggy graveyard?” He asks softly, and at Martin’s nod, he continues. “Ever since she gave her statement, I’ve been having… dreams. About her, in the setting described in her statement.” At Martin’s slightly raised eyebrow Jon shoots up, spluttering and waving his hands, breathing out harshly through his nose.

“It’s not- it’s not _weird_ or, or like that, it’s- it’s about her fear.” He wraps his hands back around the mug, fingers tightening painfully as he closes his eyes. He can See it, even now.

“I think- no, I Know I bring her there, the real Naomi Herne. I put her in those dreams, make her-- _relive_ her fear, every agonizing moment of _loneliness_ and- and _desperation_. And I… I _Watch_. A monster of a hundred-hundred unblinking eyes, drinking it all in.” He takes one hand off the mug, skimming his fingers over his cheek, his neck. He had so many eyes, he could See so _much_. He takes another deep breath.

“I started to take note of other oddities then, too. The statements, I could really feel them. It was like I was living through the statement again, experiencing the terror of the statement giver all over again, but only when I record them. That’s also when the feeling of being watched is at its strongest.” Briefly, his eyes flicker closed, and he can feel the weight between his shoulders so distinctly, the brushing of a hundred fluttering eyes against his back, drinking in his fear, his apprehension. There is a gentleness to it that hurts even more, somehow.

“There is-- something that watches the Institute. That watches the- the _real_ statements, the ones that have to go on tape.” He pauses again, casting his mind back to the night before, and he realizes something else.

“Prentiss mentioned it, I think. Said something about being ‘marked by the Eye.’ I suppose that’s as good a name as any for it. It is always watching whenever I’m in the Institute, a feeling of eyes on my back, but when I’m recording a statement it becomes-- _heavier_ is really the only way to describe it. More intense. I have no doubt this- this _Eye_ has everything to do with what’s happening to me.”

Martin has been quiet this whole time, never interrupting or interjecting, and Jon is grateful as he takes a moment to pause and collect his thoughts again. The hum of the tape and Martin’s presence in front of him are grounding.

“I don’t really know exactly when it started, but it was some time after that I started to… Know things. To have the little flashes of information run through me that I couldn’t have gotten on my own. I was actually in the middle of having a panic attack trying to deal with that when I Saw Prentiss and learned about your whole, er, _predicament_.” It feels awkward to talk about it so casually, but Jon doesn’t have much energy and his meagre attempt at levity manages to pull a wry smile out of Martin anyway so he’ll count it a success.

“But, ah, that’s about all I understand about it, as of yet, so let me continue with the dreams. Dream, really, since it’s just the one.” Jon traces a finger over the handle of his mug, feeling the memories swimming at the back of his mind, waiting for him to pull them out and relay them in perfect detail.

“The dream has changed, recently. At first I couldn’t even remember it, and when I started, experiencing it as the… monster, I didn’t have control over my body. There was always something- something _larger_ than me, holding me in a massive hand and nudging me around, turning my gaze this way and that.” Again the feeling brushes over him, reminding him of its presence, a comfort, a fear, a Watcher. His fingers tighten around the mug.

“Obviously the same thing that watches the Institute has me there. It’s why I’m so certain it’s responsible for my changes, it’s just always _there_ , always Watching. Watching me, through me, taking in everything it can. It feels hungry, for knowledge or- or for _something_ , I don’t know what.

“But, ah, back to the dream. I couldn’t move of my own will, before, but now I could, and I… I talked to her-- to Naomi-- last night. She hit me in the chest and shocked me out of- of _something_ , because suddenly not just my limbs were under my control, but my voice as well. I talked to her, made her feel less alone, told her I was _sorry_. And she stopped being as scared, and…” Jon sighs, scrubs a hand over his face. He takes another drink of his cooling tea, suddenly parched. Martin continues to wait patiently for him to finish, already done with his own tea, hands left fiddling with his empty mug. Jon takes one final drink before he continues.

“I don’t know how to describe it, don’t even understand it really, but something in that thing that holds me there felt… interested, in her lack of fear. In the change of emotions, in my apologies. I don’t really know for certain that it was important, it _felt_ like a shift of something, but I couldn’t say. Then I woke up.”

As the final words leave his mouth Jon feels an overwhelming exhaustion come over him again, reminding him of how little he’s slept and how much energy he expended last night. Pushing his empty mug aside he pillows his arms on the table and lays his head down, looking up at Martin as he does so to assure the man he’s still at least paying attention.

Martin takes a long moment to mull over Jon’s words, leaning hard against the counter, he puts his mug down and starts fiddling with the sleeves of his sleep shirt, a concentrated expression on his face. Jon just watches, content to let him process, knowing it would be unreasonable to rush him after so much new information just got dumped in his lap with no warning. He could use the break himself, too.

“Well,” Martin finally starts, voice slightly rough and only barely trying at being cheery, “that really is quite a lot, innit?” Jon snorts, turning his face into his arms to muffle the sound, but Martin cracks a slightly more genuine smile at the noise anyway before his expression sobers again.

“First things first, I think I should just say that I- I believe you, Jon. I mean, how can I not, after last night?” He pauses and looks Jon over, suddenly sheepish. “And, well, I didn’t know if you knew this but sometimes you… er… your eyes get a bit… glowey?” Jon blinks, confused, before he shoots up.

“What? _When_?” He asks, frantic. It’s all happening so fast, so much of his humanity slipping away, and he doesn’t know what about this sets him off-- if it’s the fact that it’s an outward expression of the things wrong with him or if it’s just another weight to the pile-- just that it does. Martin flails his hands a little, answering quickly.

“E-earlier, when you went all rigid and odd for a second, and you seemed like you were somewhere else? And- and when you try to Know things, or at least I think that’s what you’re doing when it happens, because that’s what you said you were doing last night in my flat. And it’s not extreme! You just-- your eyes are brown, and when _it’s_ happening, they’re… they’re green, and they’re _bright_. I only noticed because I’m looking at your face, it’s not- it’s not like turning a flashlight on and off, or anything.” Martin finishes hurriedly, the words leaving him in a rush. Jon can only stare for a moment, before slumping back down into his arms with a groan. Martin makes a tiny noise of distress.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry Jon, but really it’s not all bad. I promise it’s not the most obvious thing, you can probably play it off by just avoiding eye contact.”

“I appreciate your attempts at comfort, Martin, but it’s not just about people _noticing_ , it’s about the fact that I’m turning into a _fucking_ monster and I can’t _do_ anything about it.” Jon bites out, the stress and fear and anxiety finally snapping him taught enough that he lashes out at the first available target. Of course it’s Martin, of course he’s going to continue to be an absolute arse to the only person that cares enough to even try with him. Jon slumps further into his folded arms, already regretting the words, and he feels the weight between his shoulders surge and flutter over him. He hates how comforting it is.

“ ‘M sorry, Martin.” He mumbles. He’s so very, very tired. Martin just sighs, and he can hear shuffling, before there’s a hand on his shoulder, pushing, and Jon finally lifts his head.

“Jon, I understand that you’re under a lot of stress right now, and I get that you’re probably going to say a lot of things you’ll regret because of that. I’m willing to work with you on that. But you have to be willing to try too, ok? You’re not powerless. I’m here, and so are you. You can still do things.” Martin’s voice is firm but soft, more gentle than Jon probably deserves, but he would be a complete idiot to brush it off.

He nods, sniffling. “Yes, I know. And I _am_ sorry. I’m just…” He trails off, feeling absolutely useless at his inability to communicate, but Martin just smiles and squeezes his shoulder.

“I get it, Jon, and it’s fine. We’re going to work on that. Finding the words, _and_ dealing with it.” Martin smiles again, so unbearably warm, and Jon wonders if he’s going to start crying on principle, unused to the attention and kindness and the _caring_. Instead he just takes in a trembling, watery breath.

“Yes. Yes, we will. Thank you.” Beside them, the tape recorder clicks off.

~

Martin insists that Jon go back to bed for a bit-- “You’re dead on your feet, Jon! You look like a stiff wind could snap you in half!”-- so Martin can take a shower and look around the flat a little. Jon insists on the last part, wants Martin to familiarize himself with where he’s staying, doing his best not to be embarrassed over how bland it is. Better to get all that out of the way early.

His sleep isn’t dreamless, but it also isn’t nearly as coherent as it’s been lately. Rather than the familiar scene of the graveyard, it’s all nonsense colors and flashing images and the feeling of being Watched and Seen and Known and Held-- it’s not… unpleasant, but it’s really too much for Jon to even think about dealing with right now, so he puts it to the back of his mind when he wakes.

When he finally gets up at around nine (and thank god all that business last night was on a Friday, Jon doesn’t think he could drag himself to work if he tried) Martin is puttering around the kitchen, a pleasant smell wafting through the flat. The living room is incredibly tidy, all of Martin’s personal effects neatly folded and set up around the couch, and even the few things Jon leaves around the room are cleaned up and put away.

Jon slumps over to the kitchen table, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “You didn’t have to do all this, Martin. Despite how overwhelmingly more competent you are, you’re still technically my guest.” Martin laughs, turning something over in the pan with a spatula.

“Oh hush, you’re putting me up when I need a place to stay. Plus, you saved my life last night. The least I can do is make you some breakfast.” He flips the contents of the pan one last time before killing the heat and transferring two servings of scrambled eggs to the plates he had set out on the counter already. Humming, he nudges one plate over to Jon and grabs them both glasses of water, before sitting down next to Jon at the table.

“Tell me how you like them, alright? You didn’t really have much to work with in the fridge so I did what I could, but I think they turned out ok.” Jon murmurs something in reply before digging in.

Jon isn’t much of a cook despite being somewhat of a picky eater, but that at least means that the things he does stock up on he knows he’ll like. Scrambled eggs, with ham and sweet peppers and cheese, is definitely something he likes. He inhales the first few bites, absolutely starving, before he slows and turns a sheepish smile at Martin.

“It’s- it’s really good, Martin, thank you.” Martin grins at him, and the tension eases, a companionable silence falling over them for the rest of breakfast.

Jon insists he do the dishes since Martin cooked, until finally the kitchen is clean and put away and they’re sitting in the living room on the couch while Jon tries helplessly to think of what to say.

He had nabbed the recorder from last night off the kitchen table, and now it sits on the coffee table in front of them, more for the sake of Jon’s nerves than anything else. Something occurs to Jon suddenly, and he falls back into the couch with a huff.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier, but Martin, you had a legitimate supernatural encounter last night-- er, for the last several nights, really-- with an entity we’ve already seen in the Archive’s database. You’re going to have to make a statement.” There’s a tiny crackle of static from the recorder on the table as it clicks on, and Jon glances at it while Martin furrows his brow.

“I suppose you’re right, yes. Yes, I will have to make a statement.” Martin sighs and leans back into the couch while rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A written one. I’m not going to give you a live statement, you must know that.” Martin says drily, and Jon feels something in him twitch mournfully, but he does his best to ignore it.

“Yes, and I- I wouldn’t have asked, for a live statement.” Even though it feels like a part of him very much wanted to. “With the dreams and Naomi, I wouldn’t- I wouldn’t do that to you, Martin.” Martin gives him a weak smile, and Jon feels the ache smooth out into nothing. They sit for a moment in silence, leaning back into the couch, the tape running in front of them, before Martin rolls his eyes and reaches over to turn it off. He turns back to Jon.

“You know, talking about the statements actually reminded me of something I wanted to talk about.” The recorder clicks back on, and Martin glares at it, though not bothering to try and turn it off again.

“Oh? What is it?” He does his best to keep the amusement out of his voice, but the flat look Martin shoots him says he was unsuccessful. It can’t hurt to find this funny though, it’s not like the tape recorders actively hurt anyone, to be running. He Knows the Eye Watches All regardless, it just has an easier time keeping the information coherent if it’s on tape. So really, it’s fine.  
  
“Well, I was thinking about everything you said. About the Watching, how you feel the statements, how you’ve been having dreams. And you kept talking like the thing was hungry, that it was ‘drinking’ all this stuff in.” Jon nods at Martin’s expectant look, leaning forward slightly as he continues to explain.

“So maybe, whatever it is that’s watching-- the Eye or some such-- maybe it feeds on fear?” Martin’s voice is cautious, a bit uncertain, but something in Jon sharpens suddenly, and he can feel the presence, the weight of a gaze, feels himself focus on Martin with a new intensity. Martin splutters, flailing a little, but continues, the words practically falling out of him.

“I just- it just sort of makes sense, doesn’t it? All of the statements are about things that are _terrifying,_ and you said that when you feel them it’s always- it’s always fear. So the thing that’s watching, making you relive that fear, it’s probably… feeding on it. And the in-person statement, that girl, Naomi Herne, she has the dreams, right? And the only thing she felt in the dreams was fear, and you were watching her and getting more of that fear. So I just think that’s probably- probably what it wants.”

Martin shuffles a bit in his seat, hands fluttering about as they find something to fiddle with while his mind searches for the words. They end up choosing the small couch pillow on the armrest at his side, and he pulls it into his lap to press mindless shapes into the fluff.

“And then, when you changed things, and you talked to her, and made her less afraid, it wasn’t feeding on that? And maybe it, let up a little, or something. I mean, we don’t know very much about how this works yet, so that’s just what I’ve gathered, and I might be wrong. But I think, I think the feeding thing is right.” Martin finally stops, hands stilling in his lap as he looks up at Jon.

“Jon, your eyes are… glowing, again.” That snaps him out of it, and Jon pulls back, shaking his head slightly as he closes his eyes. When he looks back, Martin gives him a hesitant smile.  
  


“Better.” Jon breathes out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you.” He says, and he means it. “This is… this is invaluable information. It makes so much sense, in hindsight, especially with how focused on fear everything is and how-” how hungry it feels, he doesn’t say, but maybe Martin gets it anyway. He pauses, takes another breath.

“It might not solely be about fear, in the long run, especially after how it reacted to Naomi Herne being _less_ afraid, but that’s certainly most of what we’re dealing with. So this was important, to understand. Thank you.” He looks down at the recorder, still running, and hums. What else would it want them to talk about-- ah. There’s another niggling tug in his belly, a pull to Ask and Know, tiny and easily ignored right now but still there. Maybe he should say something.

“For some reason, I still want to take your statement.” He says quietly, and Martin looks at him in confusion.

“But you know something-- bad, might happen, Jon! Even if it’s not another dream, _something’s_ going on, you know that.”

“Yes, I know that, of course I Know, but there’s just this-- feeling? Like a… pull. I _want_ to take your statement.” Jon sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he searches for the words to explain himself better. It’s not hunger, not really, because he really can push it aside without thinking too hard, but it’s still _there_ , a tiny thing in the back of his mind. He doesn’t know what that _means._ He groans, and Martin puts a hand on his arm, a worried look once again on his face.

“I just- I just need to Know, I need to record it. I wasn’t there when you met Prentiss, we still haven’t even gotten the chance to talk about it since I might accidentally Take it, and I just want to _Know_.” There’s something quietly desperate in his voice that he does his best to choke down, but the wildness seems to slip through anyway and Martin squeezes his arm in concern.

“I know- Know, even, that you can make a written statement and that it’ll be just as good in terms of gathering information, but I just have this-- this _thing,_ this feeling, this _want._ And I can push the thought away just fine, it’s not a- a compulsion, or anything, but it’s still there and I don’t even know why. There’s so much I don’t know, and to Know even one more thing, to take a statement, it feels like it would make me… feel better.” He finishes pathetically, letting his face fall into his cupped hands.

“God, I sound like a child, I’m not even making sense.”

“Hey, it’s ok, you don’t sound childish, Jon.” Martin says softly, still gently squeezing his arm. “I can’t imagine it’s _easy_ trying to figure out how to describe entirely new experiences like this, and I think you’re doing an alright job, considering. Just-- c’mere.” Martin is going all soft and warm again, like he expects Jon to shatter at the slightest provocation, and he knows that, before all of this, he would’ve bristled at that kind of tone. Now, it’s just reassuring, and Jon takes a deep breath as Martin hesitantly moves his hand to Jon’s back, pulling Jon into his side when he leans into the contact.

“I just want to understand what’s happening to me, Martin. I have so many questions, and I don’t have any answers and it just-- it _hurts,_ the not-knowing _._ ” He mumbles, not even really trying to raise his voice for the tape. It will pick it up anyway, he Knows. The weight of Eyes presses down between his shoulders, warm and heavy, and he takes another deep breath as Martin squeezes his side lightly.

“Hey, I know things are-- confusing, right now.” Jon snorts, and Martin just huffs before continuing. “They are! They’re confusing and difficult and _stressful._ It’s completely reasonable to not be dealing with things in the best way, right now. Now, I’m not saying you should go start taking live statements all willy-nilly because it makes you ‘feel better.’ What I mean is that you should just… allow yourself some room to figure things out. Not put so much pressure on yourself to understand everything immediately. I know it’s probably just a response to stress, to want to know all the aspects of the thing you’re dealing with so you can figure out how to react to it, but by necessity you’re figuring this out as you go, so you need to give yourself some room to actually _figure it out._ Stop expecting yourself to have complete control of the situation, it’s impossible.”

Jon knows that what Martin’s saying is reasonable and helpful and _true,_ but it’s hard to internalize these kinds of things in the middle of the situation. He’s going to try, though. Taking another few deep breaths, Jon finally nods, pulling away from Martin’s side.

“Yes, I- I’m going to try. It’s-... it’s hard, with everything going on, to try and be rational about my response to it all. But I’ll try. Because otherwise, I might actually go insane.” He says it lightly, mouth quirked in an awkward smile, and he’s rewarded by Martin’s snort.

“Well, good. I can’t have my most _gracious host_ going off the deep end while he’s putting me up, now can I? I’m not going to pick up this rent on my own!” Martin jokes, and Jon huffs out a quiet little laugh, tension already draining from him. It’s amazing how much easier it is to get out of his own head when he has someone to talk to. That, and Martin really is a fantastic listener. He’s soft and receptive and entirely too kind, and Jon wonders how he ever could have been so callous to a man that’s so obviously just trying to put good out into the world.

“Your trust in me is inspiring, truly.” He says, voice dry despite his smile, before his face softens even more. “Thank you though, Martin. I mean it.” Martin baps him on the arm reproachfully.

“Oh really Jon, you don’t need to thank me for every little thing. We’re friends now, aren’t we? I should like to think I’ll be there for my friend when he needs it. Now, do you want to go grocery shopping with me or not? Because, and no offense, but you still look _awful._ ” Jon huffs out another surprised little laugh, his turn to bump Martin lightly on the arm, but the levity finally filling the room really is worth any possible embarrassment.

~

The weekend passes in awkward, clumsy, but well meaning, attempts at levity. It’s _hard_ adapting to someone else after living so long alone. Jon keeps bumping into Martin in the kitchen or walking in on him half dressed or knocking over his toothbrush in the cramped bathroom. There’s a certain amount of adjustment that they just haven’t gotten through yet. Not to mention the fact that Jon is trying his damndest to make up for how abysmally he’d treated Martin before now. The man deserved his respect and Jon never gave it to him, and while he’s trying now, that doesn’t change the fact that he was still _awful_ before.

Navigating difficult social situations also isn’t helped by all the… _changes_ still happening to Jon. The little bits of Knowledge that will pop up, the now-comfortable feeling of being Watched. It’s a bit like a weighted blanket at this point, and he doesn’t really know how to feel about that.

The first night is just as stilted and awkward as before, maybe a little less so but not… great. He doesn’t dream of Noami; it still doesn’t seem to be every night yet, but they’re getting closer, so he won’t be surprised when that starts. No, it’s another formless, warm, weight of a dream, full of Eyes and Knowledge and Watching. He’s getting more used to it, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he _should be_ but he _is_. People can adapt to anything if they live with it long enough.

Sunday is just more learning how to fit around each other, trying not to step too far into each other’s space. Martin is still figuring out how to, well, live here, and Jon is trying to let him, trying to give him room and make things clear, but sometimes the Knowing gets in the way of communicating clearly and sometimes it’s just Jon being socially obtuse. He would like to think most of the problems are supernaturally based but really, it’s probably just him. It’s been so _long_ since he tried living with someone. He wasn’t even good at it, with Georgie. He wants to do better this time.

At least he’s being forced to buy real groceries. Martin is making him eat regular meals and reminding him to drink water, and he feels better than he has in weeks, since this all started. There’s the hint, that they could be good for each other, already there, and Jon hopes dearly that it’s not just wishful thinking or him taking advantage of Martin’s kindness. He wants this to work. He wants things to be better.

He goes to bed that night with those thoughts replaying over and over in his head, and he _hopes._

~

He is in a graveyard. The fog breaks wherever he steps, shivering away from his Gaze. Good. It doesn't have much of a place here anymore, the Lonely. How can one feel truly alone when they know they're being Watched?

Naomi Herne is leaning back against the wall of one of the graves, as she always is. She isn't crying now, just toying with the sleeve of her shirt, looking tired. She turns at his approach, the crunch of damp dirt and grass.

"Nice shirt."

Jon tilts his head down and pulls a bit on the front of the shirt to remind himself of what it is he’s wearing, more out of habit than necessity (he can See all, after all). It’s a faded t-shirt with a smiling kitten on it, with the words “Make the meowst of it!” plastered over the front. A gift from Georgie, he remembers, embarrassed, but perhaps it’s good, to be wearing something so silly in such a desolate place. A bit of fun where otherwise there is very little.

“Thank you.” He says softly, and he means it. He makes his way over to the grave, sitting down at its edge and letting his legs dangle over the side. Naomi gives him an amused look, snorting when he rocks his legs back and forth a few times, suddenly full of a very restless sort of energy. He’s not used to socializing in general, but trying to strike up conversation with the person you’ve been terrorizing for weeks? It’s something else entirely.

“... I’d just like to apologise, for how I treated you. When I took your statement and- and here. The dreams.” He starts, haltingly, nervous, face turned uselessly away in an effort to hide the depth of his struggle with the words. “I was cruel, when you were so obviously hurting. You deserved reassurance or just something- something _kind_ , something more, and I didn’t give you that. I’m sorry.”

Jon doesn’t have to turn back to Naomi to See her expression, but the movements are a comfortable familiarity, so he does. She’s smiling at him, a stilted, dry thing, and she huffs out a quiet laugh when he finishes talking.

“You know,” she starts, picking at the dirt under her fingernails and avoiding the gaze of his many hovering eyes, “I think I should be more mad at you. I was planning on it, using the anger to keep myself from getting lost in it, in the fog and the loneliness. I kept thinking about what I would do if I ran into you in person again, how I would rage against you and scream and yell and just let you have it for doing this to me, making me feel all this and not even helping me after I gave you my statement. But now, here? I don’t think I want to be that mad, anymore.” She finally turns to face him, grin sharp.

“Oh, I’m still pissed, don’t doubt that. But I don’t think I hate you, anymore. I think you’re just someone who got into something far over his head and was doing his level best to drag other people down with him. But you’re not going to keep doing that, right?” Her tone is light, but it hardens as she asks, eyes narrowing, and Jon nods enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes, I-I’m- I’m not doing that, anymore. I’m getting help, I’m not going to let it-- overtake me.” He gets out in a rush. Naomi just hums and nods, going back to picking at her hands.

“Then I think I can deal with this. If having the same dream over and over with some nerdy eye monster is the price of both our ignorance, we can probably manage.” He nods, lips quirking up in a weak smile. There’s something like relief welling up inside of him, warm and bright and desperately hopeful. The bright spot of Watching within and without him drinks this in greedily. He wants so _badly_ to make things right, make them better. Perhaps that can start here.

They sit like that for a long while, the silence comfortable where once it was oppressive. It’s even sort of nice, in a way, to just share space with someone even when you aren’t talking. Without the chill of the fog it’s really almost peaceful.

There’s a shivering waver, at the edge of the dream’s horizon, wobbling about like a bubble about to burst. Time’s up, he thinks. Suddenly, Naomi turns back to him with a very dry look.

“If you ever fall asleep naked, I’m coming back to the Institute to kick your arse.” It’s all Jon can do to splutter out a laugh before the dream shudders and fades to the tone of his blaring alarm.

~

Jon has always gotten up early as a rule, but at least now he’s finally waking up on purpose and not because he’s been jolted out of a horrific nightmare. In fact, his sleep was… surprisingly pleasant. He feels well rested, and there’s something warm sitting in his chest that he can’t quite put a name to. It feels happy and… curious, in a way. That now ever-present brush of eyes against his back flutters over him warmly, reminding him of its Watching, and he hums contentedly, just sitting in bed while he thinks.

Naomi seems much more stable now, and he feels much better knowing he isn’t still causing her constant upset. She has every right to be mad at him and could have been hurling abuse at him every night if that’s what she wanted to do (he would deserve it), but the fact that she’s willing to forgive him, or at least put up with him, makes him much happier. He still has a chance to make things right. He has to hope that he can do it.

Jon usually shows up to work at 7:30, and it’s only 5:10, so he spends the morning showering and picking out his outfit (a nice pair of slacks and his softest jumper, he’s still exhausted from Friday and the weekend and he needs the small comforts) before he gets started on breakfast at the absolute last minute. All his mucking around the kitchen is sure to wake Martin, and it does, but the man just smiles at Jon and sits himself down at the table with a glass of water and a yawn.

“Mornin’ Jon.” Martin says a little blearily, obviously still waking up.

“Good morning, Martin.” He says back, perhaps a little more warmly than he intended. He tries to cover up the embarrassing implications of that by dishing out a bowl of oatmeal and pushing it towards Martin, cream and berries and brown sugar already out on the table. He grabs his own bowl and starts eating quickly.

Martin hums, taking his time mixing in cream and a few tablespoons of brown sugar, sprinkling few raspberries on top. When he finally starts eating, he turns to Jon with another small smile.

“This is really good! Thanks for making breakfast.” Jon mutters something back, feeling embarrassment and pride mix uncomfortably in his gut, but Martin just soldiers on despite his poor communication skills and he thinks he should be thankful for that.  
  
“Think you can give me a minute to get ready? I think it might be nice to go to work together, after all. We’ve things to do before our shift starts and I’d rather like some help making sure I don’t muck up my statement.”  
  


“Oh, you won’t, in the Institute. Especially in the Archives. The Eye’s hold over that place compels people to describe their experiences in as much detail as possible. Sometimes more.” He says quickly, a thoughtless aside. It’s only at Martin’s slightly uncomprehending, wide-eyed silence that he considers the statement and cringes slightly.

“Ah. Sorry. Just more-- Knowledge.” Martin snorts and rolls his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t address it, save to say he told Jon he really _won’t_ forget any of his statement, see, they had _nothing_ to worry about.

The rest of breakfast passes much more pleasantly, with much more mundane conversation and Martin insisting on doing the dishes until Jon manages to strong-arm him into getting dressed and ready for work instead. Really, it’s a wonderful start to the day.

Of course things immediately go wrong.  
  


They’ve just barely stepped foot into the Institute when Jon hisses and throws a hand up to his temple, a sudden _pressure_ to Being Watched overcoming him. It’s awful, all slick and heavy and probing, nothing like the warm brush of eyes against his back or the delicate weight of being Watched and Known settling over his shoulders.

“Jon?” Martin asks softly, voice already tight with worry. His eyes must be glowing, then. Wonderful.

“It’s- it’s Elias, _damn._ ”

“Elias?!” Martin squeaks, tone more confused than worried, and of course he doesn’t understand, _Jon forgot to tell him_. He hasn’t voiced _any_ of his worries about their boss, damn him.

But there’s really nothing for it, no time. Jon grabs Martin’s hand and pulls him along, hurrying them towards the Archives, instinct or something like it guiding him there. That oil-slick pressure continues to press down on him and he grits his teeth against it. He Knows Elias is coming (can See him, heels clicking as he makes his way evenly down the Institute hall towards the Archives, not even bothering to disguise the fact that he knows where they’re going) and he’s going to have this conversation on his own terms. He still doesn’t _know_ what Elias’s deal is, but the fact that he doesn’t know makes him wary, and there’s something about Elias that has put him on edge since that first encounter where Jon could _feel_ his Watching. He promised himself he’d be careful about what he says and does around the man, after that, and he Knows that will be easiest in the Archives.

“Just-- he wants to talk to us, to you, I think, and I want to do that in the Archives. Please just-- I promise I’ll explain later, but just know to watch what you say.” Jon murmurs to Martin as they finally cross the threshold into the Archives. He feels some of the weight lifting, being replaced by that warmer, softer hold, and he tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief. Elias is barely a few minutes away.

He lets Martin set about putting his things away at his desk, while Jon bustles around looking for the right forms to fill out for Martin’s statement. A part of him eyes the tape recorder on his desk through the door to his office, but it’s easily squashed here, where so many statements wait to be Voiced and Ordered and Known. Martin can write his statement, really.

It’s just as Jon has shuffled the last few forms into a neat pile that the pressure swells and bores into him, like it’s trying to drill into his temple, and Elias walks briskly through the door. He bites back a grimace and rubs at his forehead, eyes closed, willing them to be normal when he turns to Elias and gives him a small, polite smile.

“Ah, hello Elias. Any particular reason for this visit? You’ve never had a problem with me coming into work early before.” He tries to be light, but his tone must still carry the hint of his discomfort, because Elias just raises an eyebrow at him and quirks his mouth up in a small smile.

“Hello Jon, Martin.” He inclines his head at the both of them. “I have a reason, but don’t worry, it’s certainly nothing bad. I was just wondering after Martin’s health when he’s been gone for so long. How are you feeling?” Elias directs this question at Martin. As he does, Jon can feel something charged hit the air, and he has to suppress something like a growl.

A tape recorder clicks on on Martin’s desk. It wasn’t there before. Elias spares it a glance and a small frown, before turning expectantly back to Martin, still spluttering.

“Oh, erm,” Martin starts off cautiously, obviously confused and intimidated after Jon’s whole spiel, and especially now with the tape running. “I actually wasn’t sick, I was… trapped at home. By a- um, an- an entity. I was actually going to write out my statement about it-”

“Oh? You have something to make a statement about?” Elias interrupts smoothly, ignoring Jon’s glare. “Why would you write it out when the Archivist is here? Surely it would be easier, what with you having to archive the written statements orally anyway.” At that he gives Jon a look and the pressure bores into him, until he can just barely keep himself from cringing away. His smile is more of a grimace, now, and Elias just smirks at him.

“Yes I… I suppose we weren’t thinking, were we.” Jon grits out. “Thank you, Elias, we’ll get right on that. And I’ll be putting in a request for a raise for Martin because of his encounter and his commendable behavior in the face of danger. I do _hope_ you’ll see the validity of such a request after listening to his statement.” His voice is level and even a bit cheery, but inside he’s raging.

Elias Knows, he _must_ Know, and he’s still making Jon Take a statement. Despite their reservations, their obvious discomfort, he’s _pushing._ Jon Knows now that he is right not to trust this man. Thank God the Eye won’t let Elias see into the Archivist’s head, or this kind of thinking might become a problem.

“Wonderful, I’ll be happy to look over your request." Elias says lightly, still with that little smirk on his face. He turns back to Martin and inclines his head, voice dripping with concern that Jon feels he could tear away like paper. "And I am glad you're alright, Martin. If you'd like to take some more time off for sick leave because of any injuries gained during your encounter, just ask. It's the least I can do."

With one final flourish Elias turns and walks out the door, the pressure abating only when he finally crosses the threshold of the Archives. But there’s still a tiny, oil-slick layer of Watching that Jon can feel blanketing slimily over him, and he waits another few moments before mentally throwing it off with as much force as he can muster. It goes, thankfully, and Jon can finally take a clear, deep breath, taking comfort in the familiar weight of that warm Gaze always on him. The tape recorder beside him clicks off.

"God, that wasn't-- I'm sorry for that, Martin, I should have warned you." He starts shakily, his throat suddenly unbearably dry.

"It's- it's alright. Or, well, it's not _alright,_ but I don't blame you for it at all." Martin fidgets with the blank statement paper still in his hands, finally setting it on his desk with a wince. "That was… extremely uncomfortable. Why is he so keen on you taking my statement live?"

"Because he Knows what it does and he must _want_ that." Jon growls out, glaring at the closed door. “He must Know about what’s happening to me, too, he’s _pushing_. I don’t trust him.” He stays like that for another moment, before some of the energy leaves him and he slumps over to Martin's desk with a long, tired sigh.

"Come on, there's nothing for it. He's Watching the Archives, and he's certain to ask after the recording anyway. We really do have to take your statement now." Jon's voice is resigned because he Knows they'll have to do this, that they really have to listen to Elias until Jon can figure out how to avoid incidents like this in the future. Martin sucks in a breath, eyes wide.

"Wh-- but! But, we still don't know what will happen! Are you- are you sure?" Martin's voice is high and tight with worry, and Jon feels something in him tighten.

“I… I don’t… I’m not sure, really, I can’t See-- I don’t Know any other options. I _Know_ he’s Watching and he’s made it clear that he wants this, but I _don’t Know_ what he’ll do if we… if we refuse. But you’re- you’re right. You’re the one who’ll be most affected, it should be your decision.” Jon tries to keep his voice even as he says it, doesn’t want to put any more pressure on Martin than he already has. It’s an awful situation they’re in, one with few options, and it feels… slimy, to almost be forcing him to make a statement.

Martin sits there for a long, tense few moments, worrying his hands and fidgeting with the ends of his jumper and leaning back against the side of his desk. He looks stricken, glancing between Jon and the entrance to the Archives, and Jon really does feel awful, pushing him like this, pressing and asking and trying to _take_. He doesn’t like it. Damn Elias!

Finally, Martin lets out a breath and his whole body slumps forward just a little, resigned.

“Yes, fine, you’re right. We really do have to. I’ll do it.” And Jon aches at the worry in his voice, but he stands up anyway, giving Martin a soft, apologetic look.

"It'll be alright. I can- I'll figure something out, ok? With Elias. Come on though, we should get started. You'll want to take a break after." With that he finally enters his office, tape recorder sat primly in the middle of his desk. He picks it up, sighing, before murmuring into the mic, "he doesn't need to relive his fear for you, please leave his dreams alone," and setting it back down. Something like an answering pressure weighs down on him, and he sits down heavily behind the desk as he waits for Martin to sit opposite him. The recorder clicks on.

"Statement of Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding an encounter with the entity known as Jane Prentiss. Statement recorded direct from subject, March 14, 2016.

"Statement begins."

~

By the end of it, Martin is pale and shaking, and Jon just feels… not full, he wasn’t _hungry_ , but in some way sated. Like a craving he filled. He hates it.

“Are you going to be alright, Martin?” He asks gently, keeping his voice as soft as he can. Martin nods jerkily a few times.

“I think- I think so. I’ve just never… I didn’t think it would… be like that. I wasn’t entirely prepared and I’m really rather desperate for a cup of tea now, but I think I’ll be alright.” Jon blinks, and stands up from his chair.

“Oh! Sure, I can-- let me go get you some.” Jon is just turning to walk away from his desk when Martin shoots up from his chair and stumbles forward, panic in his eyes.

“No! No, don’t, I’ll- I’ll go with you. I don’t want to-- be alone, right now.” His voice is still tremulous and shaking, but Jon just nods and gives him a small smile and Martin relaxes.

Tea is a nice, simple comfort. Martin is far better at it than Jon is, at least. He always seemed to over steep his, but Martin makes a perfect cup, and Jon already feels himself getting used to its presence in his life. Maybe that’s a good thing, adjusting to new people, coming to expect them, finding comfort in their small actions. It feels nice, at least.

They’ve been sipping their tea in comfortable silence for a few minutes and Martin’s trembling has finally subsided, so Jon cups his mug in both hands and turns to him.

“Martin, I’m truly sorry about-- well, everything that just happened. I didn’t warn you about my fears about Elias, and because of that I fear I forced you into something you very much didn’t want to do. I’m sorry.” He feels the dread welling up in him again, the fear of oh-God-I've-surely-done-it-this-time, that surely Martin must _despise_ him now, but Martin just gives him a lopsided smile and shakes his head.

"I know you did what you could, Jon, and I appreciate that. I certainly don't blame you for the whole-- statement business. I know you were trying, and it was Elias who forced us. Which certainly lends credence to your lack of trust in him." Martin says drily, and Jon nods, relaxing slightly.

"Yes, well, the man certainly has an… air about him, when you're looking for it. I'll try and figure out more about it, particularly now that we know he _must_ Know something about what's happening to me, but I won't push too hard just yet. Let's just try and get… settled, for now, alright? I'll stop being such an arse at work and _you_ can stop hogging all the hot water in the morning."

He says it sternly, but there's a smile in his voice and one threatening to overtake his faux-annoyed expression. It has the desired effect of making Martin laugh, a small but genuine little thing, and Jon relaxes against the counter and let's himself smile. He can do this. They can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That sure was a long one, haha. Next time, more plot, more Beholding, and Sasha and Tim! Wow! I have no idea what I'm doing.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have very much written ahead so I don't have any sort of update schedule and I'm really obsessing over this being good, so it'll probably take a while for me to update. But the chapters will be long, so hopefully that makes up for it! 
> 
> If you enjoyed, please leave a comment, I subsist on positive feedback.


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